


Bard Bath and Beyond

by stillmadaboutpetra



Series: appropriate ways to care for your local witcher [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Comfort No Hurt, Established Relationship, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Deserves Nice Things, Joyvember, M/M, Massage, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, geralt is a stinky ratman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:39:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27360604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra
Summary: Geralt gets aspaghettispa day!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: appropriate ways to care for your local witcher [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762969
Comments: 57
Kudos: 539





	Bard Bath and Beyond

**Author's Note:**

> this is my apology to everyone for all the...horror and dead dove content from the past month...there's nothing complex to this.

* * *

“My aunt’s sister-”

“So your aunt-”

“Well her sister through marriage-”

“Aunt-removed?”

“Geralt!” Jaskier pats a hushing set of fingers to Geralt’s lips. Geralt hide his smile behind the whorls of lute-callouses. “I’m talking.”

“Mhmm.” That’s hardly revelatory. A raised eyebrow says as much; Jaskier dutifully ignores it.

“My _aunt-once-removed’s cousins-_ don’t - don’t! -!” And as much as Geralt would like to pretend he knows what the cousin of an aunt-once-removed was called (distant - a very distant cousin) he truly does not have a guess worth interrupting Jaskier’s long-winded and ridiculous prattling. “Husband’s brother’s best-friends horse-trader’s rich merchant heiress wife owns a bathhouse.”

“An acquaintance.”

Jaskier ignores him. “And we’re going.”

“To your acquaintance’s bath house.”

“Yes!”

And because Jaskier’s putting up the money for it, Geralt’s inclined to let himself be dragged through Novigrad. “This isn’t Sigis-?”

“NO!” Jaskier whirls on him briefly, buffeted and knocked about by the milling crowds as they push through a market district. “That’s the competition.”

“Hmm.”

“This is more, well, more...Well, it pays to be a Pankratz today, my dear Witcher.”

Jaskier invoking his family name as a means to access a place set off alarms in Geralt’s head. Past experiences, while unable to truly predict future results, guided him towards the distinct impression that he was about to be entangled in some family plot, or tax evasion, murder charges, a heist, great distress about a fashion faux pas, or the debacle of an illigeitamate bastard heir. Again.

“You’ll love it! Wipe that grumpy look off your face; you’ll love it. I’m so pleased you’ve met me here. Look at me - I’m glowing! Look, Geralt!” Jaskier stops dead to turn on him in the street and cant his face into the sunlight, wagging his fingers about himself like a mating bird flashing his iridescent feathers. “Have I ever looked so luxuriously touchable? Not a blemish in sight, not a wrinkle to be seen! I am the image of milk and honey. Slice me open and find the nectar of gods running in my veins.”

And here Geralt thought Jaskier had absorbed some sense of anatomy from their travels together. Buffoonish as the man’s being, Geralt follows him with quiet amusement and a ready nature.

“Don’t make me smell like a bouquet,” is all Geralt warns him of. Jaskier pinches his nose at Geralt.

“Right now you smell rank enough to pickle cabbage. You’re lucky I adore you, Geralt - I won’t be putting any poor girl through the trouble of tending to you. I shall nobly do it!”

There were a lot of potential reasons why Jaskier would be handling the minutia of Geralt’s bathing experience, nobility the least among them.

Jaskier’s aunt’s sister-in-law’s husband’s brother’s best friend’s horse-trading merchant heiress wife’s monkey’s uncle has a nice bathhouse. Jaskier presents the front door with a flourish, hopping up onto the step, showing it off like it’s his own pride and joy.

“Hmm.”

“Hmm? That’s it?”

“It’s...nice.”

Unlike the bathhouses of Geralt’s experience in Novigrad, this one present a humble facade of dull blue painted wood, offset by rather elegant carvings and - alright, there is a little fountain trolley burbling and smelling of menth, a clean and sweetly sharp smell that cut through the general grime of the city.

“Nice. Nice he says, as if he wouldn’t curdle a bar of soap just by looking at it. In with you, Witcher, and don’t - don’t touch anything, darling. I’m afraid even your fingerprints would stain the wood with how travel-worn you are.”

“Ah…” At brief inspection, yes, his fingernails are caked black with….blood? Entrails? Dirt? He rather hopes it is dirt. He passes Jaskier, ignoring how the bard’s eyes watered at the close proximity. It’s been two weeks of not doing more than wiping his face at the edge of rivers and giving his balls a quick dunk to keep them from rotting through his pants.

“Melitele’s perfumed thighs,” Jaskier gasps behind him, strangled. “Go straight and then go downstairs. Dead ahead, Geralt. No touching! I’m going to grab a few things. Yes, there - downstairs. Strip when you’re down. I’ll bring you a robe. I’m burning your clothes. I’m kidding….I’m not kidding. Go! Go~!”

Geralt dutifully descends the staircase, feeling the air grow humid and warm with each step down. Upstairs, he can hear the muted noise of other people but everything is lulled. The wood, he realizes, absorbs the going-ons of this strange and tucked away bathhouse more than stone ever could pretend to echo it away.

Jaskier had pestered him for months to divert his roaming course to join him in Novigrad where he boasted luxury and hospitality to share. It has always been his aim to dote such things upon Geralt, ever since their first memorable tryst in the woods when Jaskier was no more than a trembling rabbit of a boy.

The thought makes Geralt laugh to himself, his laughter safely chambered in the steam-swollen wood, the scent of maple and ash and a warm fire greeting him. A square risen bath sits ready atop stonework with a shafted chimney funnelling smoke from an iron furnace up and away, out to plume and darkly perfume the air above the bathhouse, to join the gray smoke of industry and forge that mark such cities. Geralt strips, eyes on the steaming water, all the days of long travel suddenly a hard clutch around his body, his muscles groaning, his bones shifting.

He get’s a naked foot on the first hot stone leading to the bath when he hears a frantic “Wait!” shouted down at him and then the quick clambering footfalls of Jaskier all but throwing himself down the flight of stairs, arms full of a robe and towel, and a wooden basin clattering with hidden objects. “Do NOT soil that bath you stinking mongrel of a man!”

Geralt crosses his arms across his chest as Jaskier bolts across the room to a stool.

“You don’t just toss yourself in. There’s an order to such things. Now sit. Sit, darling. Gods, I have my work cut out for me. There’s a good Witcher. Talk to me, darling, tell me of your travels. Here, here, open this - here, a cup. Drink, hush, sit.”

So Geralt finds himself perching his naked ass on a frankly too-small stool that he can’t fit both buttcheeks on without wiggling back and forth, trying to drink a cup of heady wine and dodge Jaskier’s flouncing and flailing limbs as he sets up a veritable alchemist’s lab with bottles and jars and combs and...knives.

Geralt drinks his wine quickly. Just quick enough to have the cup be empty when Jaskier takes it from him and prods him to stand again before clicking his tongue, muttering to himself, and pushing Geralt back onto the small stool that wants to cleave his ass in two.

“Would you make up your mind?” Geralt snaps, not at all relaxed despite Jaskier’s many promises to provide relaxation.

“It’s not my fault i have the great insurmountable task of cleaning you up.”

“I didn’t ask to be cleaned up. I can bathe on my own.”

“But I want to,” Jaskier whines, leaning in to kiss him before wrinkling his nose and diving away. “You’re just so stinky, my dear.”

Geralt sighs. “Hand me soap and a rag. Go get us another bottle of something to drink. And food?” He tacks the last bit on hopefully. Jaskier gasps like he’s been wounded and clutches at his chest.

“Of course I’ll feed you. Don’t look like such a kicked puppy when you ask me of that, Geralt, it undoes me. It hurts me to see you simper.”

Geralt has never simpered once in his life. He growls at Jaskier and swats harmlessly at him with the towel, sending the bard laughing and back up the steps, his clamour softening until Geralt can only just hear him far above - and out the door. Geralt hopes he finds handpies. He loves handpies.

Using the wooden bucket Jaskier brought down and a rather plain bar of soap with a surprisingly formidable lather, Geralt pails out a bucket of hot water from the bath and makes a grand effort to scrub himself red and clean. He even uses one of the smaller knives Jaskier brought down, a dull and strangely curved thing, to get beneath his finger and toenails and rid himself of the worst of caked black debris built beneath.

The water he rings from the rag runs gray and opaque with murkiness.

“Hmm,” Geralt acknowledges with some alarm and no small bit of shame.

He empties the bucket down the drain like he’s hiding a dead body, erasing the evidence of just how fetid he’d been. He's begun on a second bucket and his hair (finding, to his growing alarm, a snail behind his ear - how had he missed a whole snail cavorting in his hair) when Jaskier returns, once more falling himself down the stairs, this time boasting a small handpie of game meat, still warm and ready to ooze with grease.

“Oh, look at that, I can make out your face without a layer of dirt on your skin - Hello Geralt!”

Geralt grunts and relieves him of the pie, perching once more on the too-small stool, balancing himself carefully as Jaskier whistles a diddy and picks up where he left off, using the comb to work the worst of the knots from his hair while Geralt eats his belly-full, licking juice and crumbs from his fingers.

“Still hungry?” Jaskier asks, fingers rubbing his scalp, suds running down Geralt’s neck.

“I can always eat.”

“After we’re done here. I’ll have you plumper than a marriage goat.”

The washing of his hair pulls and twinges with stray knots but overall, Jaskier handles the task gracefully, picking up in Geralt’s silence to regale him with the latest gossip regarding a trial about the artistic authenticity of a particular salacious book series published by a nobleman who ran off with the wild tales of a brothel-owner and - and -

“Up, now, stand.”

Geralt stands lazily, calm beneath Jaskier’s hands. Jaskier doesn’t wash the soap from his hair, not yet. Instead, he didders about with his bottles and such until he returns, dripping oil on Geralt’s shoulders and working the scentless oil all down Geralt’s body, still chattering away, almost removed from the intimacy of the encounter. There are times, appreciative times, such as when Jaskier’s debating clothing or tending to Geralt in some way, where he drops his usual lewd pursuit of flesh and distracts himself with his own voice, letting Geralt drop all sense of anticipation and be touched with little aim.

It’s not until Jaskier’s kneeling behind him and lifting his ankle to run slick hands under the sole of his foot, fingers coming up to push between his toes - brave of him - that Geralt finally caves to curiosity.

“What are you doing?”

“Round two.”

Geralt twists to look down behind himself to see Jaskier waiting expectantly for his attention.

“Of?”

“Of the ultimate Witcher-sprucing spa treatment.” He points off to a lidded barrel against the wall. “You could really do with some fresh sea water and sea air, really open yourself up to the cleansing element of salt but I know how much you don’t care to swim.”

  
It’s not Geralt’s fault that he has heavy bones. He feels a bit like a stone dropped into a lake when it comes to swimming. Sure, he can do it, but he isn’t the most graceful creature in the water.

“Anyway-”

Seconds later, Jaskier’s patting him down with wet clayish sand. It’s red and smells - not of dirt but of the idea of dirt. Clean and deep without anything at all to it.

“What are you doing?”

“Entombing you,” Jaskier answers blithley, smearing a thin layer onto Geralt’s face, leaving his lips and the area around his brows and eyes clean. “Now hush, darling. Let it dry.”

“Mhm….”

Properly mummified in the stuff, Geralt is forced, ratherly passively, to endure Jaskier’s one-sided and hyperbolic narration of having been seen at a party wearing the same thing as Valdo Marx, who had happened to be in the same city for the evening.

“And do you know what Madame Bouffant said to me? She said, I’ll tell you what she said, my dear, she said “oh, I just saw Valdo wearing the very same thing!” As if HE wore it first. I dare say I wore it first and she made the mistake of seeing him before me and--”

The clay cannot dry soon enough. Jaskier tsks his tongue and pokes at Geralt and then makes great declarations about being well-cooked and then there’s a great bout of sloshing and washing and scraping and scrubbing. The sand or clay or paste, whatever it is, has grit to it, and as Jaskier buffs it from his body, he prickles with a gentle rawness, skin flushed and singing with the friction and abrasion until he feels poured into his own flesh. He feels like a wound freshly healed.

“Radiant!”

“M’itchy.”

Jaskier laughs lightly, eyes crinkling. “It'll fade,” he says with far more gentleness than the moment deserves. Geralt only has a moment to squint at him in doubt before Jaskier tips onto his toes to kiss him sweetly upon the mouth - and Geralt forgives him the prickling itch of his skin with a hum that makes Jaskier laugh once more and pat his cheek.

And then, finally, blessedly, he’s allowed to sink into the hot bath all the way up to his chin. Jaskier places a hot towel over his face and ears, smothering him gently, and then - peace. Peace at last. The world rustles and shifts but now dimly and distantly even to his keen ears.

The water is - soft. Strange. Heavy and not. His body feel both light and too large, as if he'll drift off with the steam and fill the whole room. Salt. He licks his lips and they taste of salt and oak. Of wine and dark meat. Fingers in his hair, scratching - the sound of a stopper in a bottle, a bubble of noises. Fingers and a comb and his hair, scritch-scratching, all around him, within him - Jaskier and Jaskier's fingers on him, around him. The water's fragrant, an herbal clean smell.

He must make a sound - he does. A sigh, a moan. Something. Jaskier hums an answer, otherwise quiet, but the towel, grown cool, lifts from his face. Jaskier shushing him, though Geralt hasn't said anything.

Dark leaves float around him, small purple and white flowers and golden pollen. He squints through the dreamy steam.

“I thought … I said no bouquets.”

“Just this once,” Jaskier murmurs, tipping Geralt’s head back to the edge of the tub, a towel cushioning him, his hair soaked and trailing over the edge of the bath. “Trust me.”

Geralt closes his eyes.

* * *

With the furnace beneath the bath and no chill to creep in, time fades without distinction. Jaskier moves, slowly and quietly, humming a song all the while. He swirls oil into the water and crumples more eucalyptus and heather tastefully into Geralt’s ear, rattling a bit more salt out of a jar to simmer around the Witcher’s truly fearful feet.

He's been planning this particular concoction for weeks now, waiting for Geralt to join him in the city following a bit of - not a spat, not really. But they're been grating on each other and it had ended with Jaskier dramatically fleeing from the wilds and the woods and leaving Geralt to his grunting and boorish behavior. And his odor.

But now - peace at last. Geralt’s a tasty little boiled crab by now, his corpse-like complexion resurrected into an almost life-like flush. Jaskier lets his darling witcher marinate in the bath for however long it takes _him_ to drink a bottle of sweet chilled wine before unwrapping Geralt from his steamy cocoon.

Geralt blinks dazedly up at him, pupils wide and dark in his yellow eye.

“Hello there,” Jaskier greets him once more, tone low and knowing. “Relaxed?”

Geralt nods slowly, reluctantly, trying to wrestle himself to his usual alertness. No such luck. Jaskier cuts off his rousing wariness with a glass of chilled wine, urging the Witcher to drink and refresh himself. Geralt hums at him suspiciously but obeys, made docile by a long soak and the herbaceous fumes. With orange blossom slick fingers, Jaskier coos to the Witcher, rubbing the man’s temples in slow widening circles until Geralt’s head is bobbing and lolling, barely held up by his neck.

“Witch,” Geralt curses him without any heat. “You've drugged me.”

“No such thing, darling. Oh, but do you want some? I know a lady with an excellent selection. A trained physician of the finest class.”

His offer to find them something a touch more thrilling than a good bottle of _est_ _est_ fades from his tongue as Geralt tips his face into Jaskier’s palm, nuzzling him briefly before sighing all the tension from his body. His wolf suddenly lamb.

“Oh.”

Jaskier bites his lip, breaking his own heart when he has to rouse the Witcher out of the bath and over to a cot layered with robes and blankets. Geralt collapses, jelly-legged, completely undone. Well - not yet. Jaskier will have him undone soon enough.

“What next? I’m clean,” Geralt slurs, burrowing his face into the pillows and blanket around him, wiggling and shuffling until he’s half-buried. Jaskier grabs his final jar of oil and mounts Geralt’s buttocks, sitting astride him and letting his weight pin Geralt belly-down in the cot. “I cannot get any cleaner, pup.”

The pet name sends a heady flush through Jaskier. Geralt bestows it rarely, in moment of fond exasperation, when he’s most content. When Jaskier has done something to win his hard-earned vocalized affection.

“A massage?” Jaskier pokes at his shoulders, confirming to them both the wretched knots of muscles. “Now that your muscles are nice and warm, I’m going to beat the shit out of them.”

Geralt snorts. “Be my guest.” His eyes have closed although tension still sits in his brow from what Jaskier can see.

Could he soothe that rumpled brow? Jaskier hovers his thumb above the creased edge of it, where the hair bushes and wilds and sits ungroomed and disastrous. Could he smooth Geralt’s edges and soften him to a more permanent state? It is only ever this - fleeting and temporary. Still worthwhile. This, them, fleeting, still worth everything.

“Will you fall asleep?” Jaskier dares to ask, to whisper, finally touching his fingers to Geralt’s faux-flushed cheek, tracing the ridge of his brow bone and then his cheek, the scars and the wrinkles of his ageless and aging face.

“No,” Geralt admits. “But I am - relaxed...Thank you, Jaskier.”

“I’m taking this as a challenge.”

Geralt twitches with a smile. “It’s not, but that’s your choice.”

So he does. Having Geralt of Rivia naked and splayed beneath him, at ease, relaxed, it’s a very strange and powerful thing. And for once, Jaskier does his best to keep himself from descending into the lewd and desirous. He truly does want to give his darling wolf the royal treatment, tend to him with the same luxuries that Jaskier loves and has been enjoying.

He has no need to warm the thick oil in his hands, the opaque butter of it melting quickly on Geralt’s back as he runs hot from the both, soaked through with the heat. It’s a thick pasty butter in the hand, derived from some southern nut Jaskier barely can remember the name of, but it turns molten and divinely smooth as it melts, spreading easily along Geralt’s scar-torn body. Jaskier works it down the curve of his spine, across his broad shoulders; his flanks and his hairy arms; his hard buttock and the back of his thighs, all the way down to his frightening and poor little feet. Geralt grunts at the attention to his toes but doesn’t move more than a twitch and a shiver before Jaskier’s back with firm hands to press and knead at his back and shoulders.

Like this, it’s a study and worship of anatomy. There's poetry to the strangeness of the body, the simplicity and familiarity of muscle and bone, the harshness of scars, the celebration of things healed and survived. He presses his thumbs into knots, his palms into the dip of spine. Squeezes and huffs over the brittle bulge of arms and calves; rubs up and down the thick long lines of thighs.

Geralt sighs; he tenses; he unwinds with long hums. At one point, when Jaskier pushes all his weight into his hands and grinds them up and down his spine, he moans and stretches like a cat and flops back into the blankets, arching and pushing back until he goes magnificently loose, muttering something unintelligible and surely praising under his breath.

Jaskier basks in it, in watching Geralt’s face slacken as the minutes roll away between them both. He would never have shared this opportunity with anyone else, although he lacks the technique of the trained workers of the bathhouse. Nor, he knows, would Geralt have let anyone near him. No, this is just for him, for them.

He kisses the knob of Geralt’s spine, the pale impression of his jugular. Geralt tilts his head ever so slightly, indulging Jaskier’s roaming lips. One kiss. Two. Another. He licks the new-silk of Gerlat’s skin and presses to him, hands spreading out hotly over all the naked skin beneath him. It’s only when he feels the subtle squirm of Geralt’s hips that he relents, sitting back fully, stopping himself from indulging further. Geralt goes still. A molten eye slits open to spy on him before closing once more with a thoughtful perhaps judgy little sniff of a narrow nostril.

“What?” Jaskier questions, peering down at him.

Geralt grunts.

“What?”

Geralt...wiggles. It rocks Jaskier lightly.

“What, Witcher? Use your words.”

Geralt inhales deeply, chest expanding, rising under Jaskier’s waiting palms. Silence crawls as the pressure builds before Geralt releases the breath and asks, words caught on the stream of his exhalation: “Why did you stop?”

Jaskier quickly rubs his hands up and down Geralt’s back, pressure light. “I can keep going.” Truthfully, his wrists and hands were starting to cramp a bit. But he can’t blame Geralt for wanting the massage to never end; it’s a true luxury to experience.

Geralt huffs a laugh and opens his eyes more fully, twisting slightly to look at him - amused. Fondness crinkles his face. He says nothing else, only looks at Jaskier for an inscrutable moment before settling back down, pillowing his face in his folded arms. Then, as Jaskier flexes his hands and debates what section of Geralt’s body to next attack, Geralt moves, almost knocking Jaskier from his perch as he spreads his thighs, sliding one leg fully from the cot so that his foot braces on the floor.

The position forces Jaskier to sit back between his thighs properly and face the dark and open cleave of Geralt’s offered bottom.

“Ah,” Jaskier acknowledges, all the cogs of his mind falling into place suddenly and neatly. The realization leaves him breathless and hot. “Yes I - I rather forget to - yes.”

Yes, he had neglected an essential place of Geralt’s body to pay his attention.

All thoughts of restraining himself with the feast of Geralt’s body leave him. The invitation is clear, made even clearer when Geralt shifts himself against the blankets, a faint undulation of his hips. It’s subtle but relentless, a slow rhythm that hitches and stutters and carries on.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispers harshly, his suppressed arousal catching up to him in a whiplash that drains the blood from his brain and to his cock dizzyingly. He hastily grabs the thick oil, fumbling the jar - Geralt laughs into his arms, the bastard. But his legs stay spread in invitation and though the candlelight obscures much of the dark intimacy between Geralt’s muscled ass, Jaskier swears on his great nana’s grave he sees his hole twitch.

Geralt’s breath audibly hitches at the first slick touch of Jaskier’s fingers on his hole. He shudders beautifully when Jaskier rubs the melting oil up and down his crack, dribbling messily down his sack to soak the blankets below. It’s a headrush to say the least, and Jaskier has to squeeze himself through his thin pants, hard and getting harder, as he rubs slow and sweet at Geralt’s hole and up over his ass, squeezing the flushed curve of him with far more intent than he had when he’d been chastely rubbing the Witcher prior.

Using two slippery hands, grip precarious, Jaskier kneels up and spread Geralt’s ass apart, thumbs down to frame his teased slick hole and part that muscle too, a dark wink opening up to him. Geralt groans and pants, humping more firmly against the bed.

“What do you want?” Jaskier asks him breathlessly, staring down at the offering of his body before ripping his gaze to Geralt’s face to watch the blushing pink screw of his expression. “A massage?”

“Funny,” Geralt pants.

Releasing one cheek, Jaskier does just that, rubbing two fingers against him before slowly sliding one finger in, pausing at the first knuckle for a sign of protest, and earning only a deepening sigh, pushing in completely to the base of his finger and pressing into the dense flesh of Geralt’s insides.

“Yeah,” Geralt sighs, canting his hips up and back. “That.”

“That?” Jaskier echoes coyly, drawing back and pressing in again and again, fingering Geralt lazily. “That’s all?”

A golden eye; a wide black pupil. “Jaskier.”

“Tell me, dearest.” Jaskier draws his finger out of Geralt, panting just as hard as the Witcher. He rests his thumb at his hole, feeling it kiss and flutter at the pad. He can’t stop himself from hooking his thumb in, twisting, pushing and pressing, just to watch the pleasure echo in Geralt’s darkening eye.

Geralt’s pink tongue flicks out over his lips and he turns his cheek up to Jaskier, his face becoming more bare and earnest. “Your hands feel good. I want - keep touching me.”

“Yeah?” Jaskier beams at him, kissing his cheek, finding his mouth - Geralt strains into the angle to slip his tongue into Jaskier’s eager kiss. It’s uncoordinated, a little sloppy. Geralt’s still jellied from the massage and slow, letting Jaskier take control of the kiss all too happily. “I’ll take care of you; it’s all I’ve wanted to do.”

“Hmm.” Geralt retreats, tucking his face down into his arms, silver hair curtaining out over him. There a quiet, grumbled “please” half-lost into his arms but Jaskier hears it all the same. He clenches his teeth around the word, around the joy and the gift of it.

“I told you that you’d like what I was going to do to you in this bathhouse” Jaskier says, pressing two fingers into Geralt, earning a hitched breath from the Witcher.

“That’s what they all say,” Geralt mutters like he isn’t already squirming and trying to fuck himself onto Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier laughs but only because he makes good on his promise, working Geralt open with the same dedication as he’d worked over Geralt’s muscles before; slowly, thoroughly, and with plenty of oil.

  
  
Maybe it was the bath, or the massage, or maybe it's the safety, but Geralt opens quickly for Jaskier so that in no time, Jaskier’s slipping four fingers into Geralt’s hole and fucking him slowly on half of his hand. The room’s hot and humid, the perfume of the water intoxicating; Jaskier can feel sweat dripping from the tip of his nose, taste it on his tongue, feel it plastering his shirt to his back and Geralt - Geralt is aglow in the candlelight, shining with oil, body made into soft and burnt shadows as he fucks himself back into Jaskier’s touch. He’s gotten his knees under himself, his back curved as his body moves urgently in pleasure; the walls soak up his moans and the wet gasping squelches of his body as his hole sucks at Jaskier’s fingers, as he drips with oil as if he’s already been fucked full and wet over and over.

“Do you want my cock?” Jaskier asks desperately, holding his wrist straight and fingers firm for Geralt to piston back onto, an urgent frenzy feeding his pleasure.

“Yes,” Geralt hisses, rocking forward onto his arms, shivering as he waits for Jaskier to fumble his cock out, shoving his pants down just far enough. Jaskier barely has time to slick himself before Geralt’s reaching back, lining him up - sinking onto him with a long groan that Jaskier echoes, his eyes rolling back in his head at the tight velvet grip of Geralt’s body.

His clean hand slips to Geralt’s hip - slides right off with how slippery they both are. Geralt doesn’t seem to notice nor care, taking his pleasure from Jaskier’s cock inside his burning hot body with single-minded enthusiasm, so close to cresting over the peak of his pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck,” Jaskier gasps, wiping his hands off on the corner of a towel before reaching around to get a grip on Geralt’s hard swinging cock between his legs and another to grab at his shoulder and yank Geralt back to im, hips to ass, burying himself to the root in the Witcher’s eager hole. “Fuck, love, there you are.”

Geralt sighs, panting as he snugs his ass in a circle, working Jaskier’s cock and grinding it into the exact spot he wants; good; good; let Jaskier be the source of his pleasure.

“There?” he asks, kissing up the valley of Geralt’s spine, between his shoulders, back to the point of his jaw. Geralt whines an acknowledgement, pushing back for more, easing forward. Jaskier follows the motion, fucking into him deeply, evenly. He could come, he could come right now, fill Geralt up, fuck him straight through the cot. But he has no desire to at the same time, instead completely transfixed on Geralt, on the heaviness of his body, of the gluttony and hunger of his pleasure as he wants more and more of Jaskier, begging with every inch of himself. “There,” Jaskier answers himself, holding him close and fucking him devotedly.

When Geralt comes, he comes like a swords been pulled from a great wound, crumpling with it, sinking forward over himself. Jaskier has one dazed second to yank at the blanket beneath his Witcher, taking the wet spot off and away before Geralt sinks down onto the cot once more, Jaskier’s cock slipping free from his still spasming hole with an obscene sound.

Jaskier kneels back, panting and sweating, his red cock glistening and hard and jerking in the air. He debates his next move for one second, barely able to form a coherent argument in his own head, before he strips himself off in long spurts all across Geralt’s back and ass, finishing over Geralt’s pink and throbbing-open hole with a final grunt, letting his spend drip and slip inside of Geralt’s body. A motion he encourages by pushing the dribble in with his fingers, unable to resist fucking Geralt’s fucked out body and feel how loose he is after taking so many fingers and a cock.

There’s a mumble.

“Hmm?” Jaskier asks, playing with Geralt’s hole mindlessly.

Geralt gasps up from the blankets, breath settling into a calmer rhythm far faster than Jaskier’s. “I said - good thing there’s a bath.”

Jaskier giggles and considers the mess he made of Geralt’s previously pristine skin. “Care to be my first repeat customer?”

**Author's Note:**

> In retro this is like my 47284772 bathtub fic im really just a one trick pony


End file.
